Texture

by Writer

The wood grain of my bed frame runs North and South.
I dig in my nails and scratch at it every night as I wait for sleep.
I secretly wish it to notice my boredom driven destructiveness.
Notice me you demeaning piece of half-assed craftsmanship!
You creak with my slightest shift of weight.
You know I can’t lie still.
You know of my restless bones.
Yet still you creak.
This should be easy and smooth like the wood grain.
But no.
If I cannot sleep, then you shall have texture.

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